


Yellow Rain

by lily rose (annabeth)



Series: piss!verse 2.0 [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Exhibitionism, Exhibitionist Sam Winchester, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, John's A+ Parenting, LITERALLY, M/M, Masturbation, Sam is both offscreen and onscreen, Sam is sixteen, Sam makes it rain, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Watersports, Weecest, Wetting, Wincest - Freeform, haha - Freeform, it's a yellow yellow rain, john is an alcoholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24809425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: There's one file inside, a video file. It's labeledFor Dean, and Dean considers whether he should open it or not...
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: piss!verse 2.0 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341
Comments: 1
Kudos: 58





	Yellow Rain

John has found a place beset by monsters, and intent on dealing with them—every last one—he has rented a farmhouse out in the countryside and enrolled Sam in school. Sam has kept up with his classes by studying even as they traveled from place to place, but it's nice to have a place to live besides a motel, and so it is that, mid-morning, Dean is cruising along on Sam's laptop, alone but for the buzz of insects and chirp of birds outside.

Sam is at school. Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, has already scrolled through all of the new content on Busty Asian Beauties dot com, and is now idly opening folders on the hard drive. Most are locked; Sam expects Dean to snoop—though he's not actually trying to _find_ anything, he's just bored—so he's not surprised by the extra level of security. Sam, though, is a teenager with a genius intellect for certain things, and research and computers are more his purview than Dean's—he's been hacking into password protected machines and accounts for years now.

John, too, is out. John is probably either hunting, or off getting drunk, something he does with distressing regularity these days. The longer they go without any leads on the thing that killed Mom, the more John sinks into depression and alcohol. Either way, John's gone, and he could be back by nightfall—or maybe he won't come back at all.

Dean is quashing that worry every time it niggles at him, and he's finally found a folder that isn't password-protected, so he leans forward as it pops open. There's one file inside, a video file. It's labeled _For Dean_ , and Dean considers whether he should open it or not. Sam might have played a prank on him—knowing Dean would poke around in his computer.

But it might also be sincere. Dean hovers the mouse over the file—six minutes and thirty-two seconds long. He ponders, drumming his fingers on one denim-clad thigh and debating whether to open the file. He probably _shouldn't_ , because Sam might also be planning to use this file to somehow track Dean's use of his laptop—but then, hadn't he said, this morning, on his way off to school: _Try doing the research for once, Dean, while I'm gone_?

Dean mentally shrugs, gives himself permission to click on it and trust Sam, and when it opens, at first it's a shuddery camera with an image careening all over the place before it steadies. Sam is sitting on one of the ubiquitous plastic chairs common to all of their motel rooms—the chairs that cause your spine to bend in half and your neck to cramp if you fall asleep in one—and he's leaning back. His face is mostly only visible from the chin down, but Dean doesn't need to see him to know it's Sam—he'd recognize that chin, and those gawky legs, anywhere.

The laptop, then, is being held at an angle—pointing down towards Sam's lap. At first Dean can't see much more than Sam's waistband of his boxers, but then the camera is adjusted, and Dean is staring at Sam's crotch. Sam has a semi, and Dean's first thought is, _way to go, Sammy, going to rub one off on video? For me?_ but Sam doesn't reach down and touch himself. Instead, he squirms in the chair, body telegraphing urgency, and something slots into place in Dean's brain: _Sam has to piss._ Badly, if his jittery movements are any indication.

Dean remembers a few weeks ago, when he'd pissed himself—pissed them both—and how Sam had asked him to rank how badly he'd had to go. Since then, they've been almost constantly in John's presence—or with John being expected back too soon—and they're both getting antsy to have some time together that isn't, even nominally, supervised by their father. John had pulled one of his own stunts, staying home for hours on end, drinking himself into oblivion in front of the television, but while Sam still crept into Dean's bed at night, they hadn't dared anything further. Sam's watch alarm would wake them at dawn, and he'd disappear back into his own room— _see, boys, you can have your own space for awhile_ —and feign sleep until time for school.

Dean knows he pretends, because just as Sam will climb back into his own bed, Dean will, on the pretext of using the bathroom that's equidistant between their bedrooms, sneak glances at him from the hallway, the door open only a crack, but that's enough to take in the scene. Sam's tousled hair, his long, long legs, usually drawn up towards his chest, and his unsteady breathing have told Dean on more than one occasion that Sam is not sleeping—or resting. The slight squeak of bedsprings—rhythmic—has also told Dean _exactly_ what his brother was up to.

But with John dozing just down the hall in front of the TV, that's all they could do; John wouldn't begrudge them rubbing one out. He's obliquely suggested it to them, even, in the guise of telling them not to get caught with any girls— _we won't be here long enough for you to tire of them._

Now, for the first time, John was sober enough to actually do some hunting. Dean suspects that there was some kind of clue or another to the Yellow-Eyed Demon that caused him to take off, but even though Sam's not currently here, Dean doesn't care—because Sam will be home in a few hours and Dean can have him all to himself then.

Dean had, without consciously thinking about it, paused the video. He'd been lost in thought, and his finger had simply clicked. Now he resumes the video, watching even more closely: he can't gauge Sam's number just by looking at him, but he seems pretty desperate—and not, Dean suddenly realizes, all that inclined to keep holding it.

When Dean first understood that Sam had to piss, he'd been expecting something like Sam squirming and pressing his hands to his semi-erect cock, maybe saying something for Dean's benefit, maybe just sitting there as long as he could hold it before dashing off to the bathroom.

But no. Sam, the kinky little bastard, never intended to _hold_ it, a fact that becomes abundantly clear when a wet spot appears on his boxers above his groin, slowly spreading upward before it stops—shiny and reflecting the light from outside. The piss is a dark blot on his otherwise light blue boxers, and Dean suddenly realizes that he's biting his lip—hard—and clutching at his own burgeoning erection through his jeans. Sam is… shit, Sam is putting on a _performance_ , worthy of Dean's favorite porn directors—only the star of the show is his favorite one of all.

Dean is leaning forward now, nose practically touching the screen, his eyes glued to Sam's groin— _there_. The anticipation of having to wait, to watch and stare and _will_ it to happen, has Dean straining against his fly, but it's soon evident that Sam is not going to keep him in suspense for long. At first, it's unsteady, a few spurts and then a pause between each one as Sam bears down against the intrinsic need to hold it in his bladder. Dean can see his ab muscles clench as he forces past that constraint, and then… Sam breaks past that inhibition—and oh, does he ever.

Sam is really going for it now: the wet patch grows exponentially, filling his boxers until piss runs down his thighs and floods his belly, and Dean can hear it pattering on the floor like so much yellow rain as Sam pisses… and pisses… and oh holy Jesus, _he's still going._

Dean can't tear his eyes away, not even to glance down and see how much time is remaining in the video—and he's not sure he'd be able to drag himself away from it if he had to, such as if John suddenly came home—and then the camera wobbles, pitches forward, and goes black. Dean is _so_ fucking disappointed all at once.

He really wanted to see the end, he acknowledges as his hand continues to squeeze and stroke himself through the denim of his jeans. Has he ever felt this turned on before, by anything? At least, by anything besides Sam, whom it feels like he's been lusting after forever?

Then the camera is righted, sun striking a glancing blow off of it, nearly blinding Dean, till he can make out his little brother again. Sam is pissing… but the stream is slowing, eddying out, and then coming to a halt—but Sam's still urgently moving, his hand in his boxers, his dick coming out flying: come spurts up in an arc that glitters in sunlight and then lands like a white rain on Sam's belly, coating his fingers—even gracing Sam's collarbones in a couple of places.

That's both enough and too much for Dean, who's been painfully erect for the entire video—the screen goes black after a few more moments of watching Sam's chest heaving—and he can't hang on. He opens his jeans, tugs himself free, and wrenches at his dick almost brutally, feeling pain spark at the base of his skull from his rough, unflinching handling, even as pleasure sparks at the base of his cock.

He wants to play the video again, but he almost doesn't dare—then decides, _why the fuck not_ , and hits replay. This time, he masturbates furiously throughout, periods of intense quirks of his wrist interspersed with moments of stillness as he becomes absorbed all over again in the spectacle of watching Sam piss himself—thoroughly debauching himself—on camera.

By the time the video goes dark a second time, Dean can feel his orgasm building so strongly it's even an ache in his throat; it feels like lightning arcing in his balls, and then, the release: like lightning again, only this radiating from his cock, a bolt that shoots through him and causes his body to clench as his back arches. He almost pulls a muscle from where he's sitting in one of those ubiquitous plastic chairs—he mentioned the chairs, right?—and almost tips it over, almost dumps himself on the floor, with the force of it.

When he regains his wits, his lower lip is swollen—and split, fuck, he must have bit himself too hard—and there's a string of come dangling from it. Holy amazeballs, he really went for it with that orgasm; he felt things during it he's never felt before. Sam has a lot to answer for—in a good way.

With that thought in mind, though, he powers down the computer and pads off to take a shower. Sammy may have wanted him to have this reaction—Dean is sure he did—but he may not be prepared for what happens next, because Dean can't go easy on him anymore.

Sam might be only sixteen, but Dean thinks if he can do _that,_ film himself while doing something so dirty, he can probably handle a little bit more from his older brother.

And Dean intends to see to it that he has it.

END


End file.
